MARBLES
What happens when you 'lose it'!
A member of our writing circle recently posted a picture that evoked much curiosity. Whilst on a walk deep in the woods, he found a pine cone with a large marble deeply embedded between the wooden slats. What a mystery. Why is a marble lodged inside a pine cone? Who put it there and why? How did it get in there? Did they lose it, or is it a sinister message? Some of us surmised it was shot from a catty, and others fantasised about fairies and goblins. My response was, “Aaah, so that’s where I lost my marbles,” which elicited a few LOL emojis. But seriously, losing one’s marbles can have both hysterical and disastrous consequences, so my muse was prompted to write about my experience with marbles.
It was an uncharacteristically cold day in Sun City, a popular luxury tourist resort only two-hour’s drive from Joburg. We huddled in beanies and scarves on the transit bus that ferries guests to the different activities in the resort. Today everyone had given up the wave-pools for the vast indoor playground that offered casinos, games arcades, movie theatres, restaurants and bars. Bundled up in jackets and scarves, we climbed on board, choosing to sit at the front to make things easier for our pregnant daughter. The bus filled up quickly, resembling a happy selection of liquorice all-sorts. The thick and the thin, the pinks and the blues, the greys and the blondes, all chatting loudly in expectation.
From the moment his dad lifted him into the bus, the cute blonde guy had our attention. With a small bag tucked under his armpit and dragging a larger-than-life giraffe, he headed down the aisle to the back, slapping hi-fives with a cheery; “Hi julle.. Ek is Jantjie,” (Hi everyone. I’m Jantjie) greeting everyone in Afrikaans. As a boy-mom, I instantly recognised the mischief in his little swagger. “This isn’t going to end well,” I giggled to my husband. “Any Jantjie I’ve ever met has spelt trouble.” To him we were participants in his adventure, and in an instant the folks on the bus became a family. It’s a unique South African thing. We connect and converse effortlessly when we share the same goal, or a common enemy. If you’ve ever been to a rugby game, or waited in a long queue at the grocery store you would have experienced the magic. It’s camaraderie on a different level bru.
A gassy pop hissed, as the doors shut and we lurched to a start. This wasn’t one of those smooth electric jobs they have in the USA. No siree, this one guzzled and groaned as it strained up the hills, and then suddenly barrelled down the other side. We white-knuckled, as we swung from side to side. My daughter held tightly onto her bulging belly when we spun around the corners, just in case…
“This must be part of the Authentic Tourist Experience” I giggled, as we hurled around another corner. And then…it happened. The bus lurched forward, and a loud clattering rang out from the back. It rolled like thunder as it came towards us. Wide-eyed, everyone turned around. Everything happened in slow motion, like that famous scene from Chariots of Fire. I turned to see Jantjie’s mom’s arms raised in the air, her rounded lips mouthing, “Help. Jantjie’s lost his marbles!” She then fell to the floor, scrambling for the escaping critters.
The crowd responded spontaneously, with an echo that ricocheted around the bus. “Jantjies lost his marbles,” was the cry as a Mexican Wave of coloured beanies bobbed up and down, knees dropped, and bums poked into the air. “Chips, here they come,” my son cried out with knees bent and arms outstretched, as the deluge of balls cascaded towards us, then suddenly changed direction with the rhythm of the ride. Backs bent over and heads disappeared. “Daar is hulle,” (there they are), came the Afrikaner war-cry. Those who were standing grabbed the leather thongs above their heads, lifted their feet and hung in mid-air, afraid that an ice-rink effect would come into play if they landed.
The bus driver continued winding his way around traffic circles, oblivious to the chaotic scenes behind him. When we finally, we came to a standstill, it was with the elation of the Olympic Marble Catching team. In a flash we had become a bomb squad. No practice or skill. No preparation. Just pure passion. As we disembarked, we slapped backs and hugged like old buddies. For those who were privileged to save Jantjies’ marbles it was a noble deed never to be forgotten. I often think about Jantjie and wonder where he is now, if his folks survived, and whether he still has all his marbles.
The joke, or course, lies in the cynical implication of being scatterbrained or has losing coherent brain function. The reference originated in the 1800’s when marbles were a hugely popular children’s game. If you lost your marbles, you couldn’t play anymore because you’d lost the tools of the game, which was a really dumb thing to do when there were so few options for playtime with buddies. The saying was later extended to losing common sense, being irrational, and not able to ‘think straight’.
We all have stories about people we know who have lost their marbles. But what is more intriguing is not that we “lose it,” but whether there is ever an appropriate place to do so. In the category of “losing it”, my experience wasn’t quite marbles, but memorable nevertheless.
I was on my first sea-cruise. All dressed up in black stockings and shortish black dress, my two young sons and I were on our way to the mandatory ‘Captains Dinner.’ I thought it wise to be ‘hands-free’ for the customary hand-shake, so I decided to forgo the handbag and put my money in my shoe. As I ambled down the deck practicing a nouveau-riche swagger, my heel caught on a loose plank and I tripped, tossing my black pumps…together with coins and bucks into the air. I lay motionless, praying the deck would open and swallow me in a Jonah moment. But as fast as I went down, people suddenly appeared from nowhere, crawling and racing after the escaped treasure. In an unorchestrated team-building moment, we bonded in an undignified scramble after rolling pennies and flapping currency. Every size, shape and age scampered to retrieve my dollars and cents, all the while screeching happily, pointing and barking instructions. With my ego dented, stockings laddered, and kids mortified, I hobbled away with the treasure safely back in my shoe “Now that’s a unique way of making friends,” I chortled. The kids, mortified by what had just taken place, chided “Mom, what were you thinking? Have you completely lost your marbles?” I bellowed hysterically. As for the rest of the cruise; wherever we went we were greeted and treated like old pals, with our new friends eager to shower us with meals and drinks. Maybe it was the rolling dimes and flapping cash that did it – but it certainly broke the ice, so to speak.
Over 2000 years ago Goliath lost his marbles at the hand of a very astute marksman when he took a perfectly placed “goon” to the middle of his forehead. David mastered his marbles, using them skilfully and with purpose. The result made history. Perhaps that’s how the prized solid ball of steel got its name. Goons are not just big marbles; they’re set apart from the rest. Like the derogatory “prize goon” reference to someone of monumental stupidity.
The beauty and intrigue of marbles lie in their individual uniqueness. No one marble is the same, with colours that change with every turn and angle. They’re versatile and can be invented into whatever game you want. They’re easy to transport, and fit snuggly into a bag or a pocket – unless you’re on a bumpy road or things become topsy turvy.
It would be an intriguing tactic to carry a hidden bag of marbles and purposefully spill them in a moment that demands extra attention, – like when you’re waiting too long in a queue, or you want to change the vibe at a party. The response could instantly change the mood, - and might even help you make new friends. Losing your marbles will certainly make a lasting impression - just remember to remove the goons.
But losing one’s marbles isn’t always a frivolous affair. A friend, who could no longer hold onto her humiliating secret, classified herself in the ‘goon’ category when she confessed how she had knowingly, and deliberately deposited millions of her hard-earned dollars into foreign bank accounts believing they were part of an investment scheme. Although it was a scam of the slickest kind, she can’t fathom the depth of her stupidity. How she could she lose her reasoning faculties on such a monumental scale baffles her brain. She lost, not only her marbles, but her fortune. The greater trauma was the humiliation that would come from telling. So she kept it under wraps for years. Picking up her own marbles was exhausting – until eventually she had to spill the beans.
It seems everyone loses their marbles at some time in their lives. Whilst it might be mortifying, the best place is probably a busy public place where people instantly rally around, where many helpful hands scramble to clean up your mess. Besides, you can tell a lot about the psyche of a country by the way people help when you’ve lost your marbles.